


An investigation of transitional epithelium

by celestialskiff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Other, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a kink. Eventually John notices. Based on <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=89808150#t89808150">a prompt from the kink meme</a> which requested John finding Sherlock after Sherlock had deliberately wet himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An investigation of transitional epithelium

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Watersports. Specifically, desperation and deliberate wetting.   
> Spoilers: None. 
> 
> Thanks to Smaych for the beta.

**Drink two pint glasses of water, and then sleep. Upon waking, drink a litre of water. Wait at least an hour.**

He lay in bed listening to John leave. Noises from the kitchen: the toaster, water running, the kettle boiling. John didn't know what he'd last boiled in the kettle, and he didn't need to know. Sounds of feet in the hall. The rustle of clothes (John was still wearing his winter coat, though it was getting a bit warm for it), the sound of keys jingling. Then feet on the stairs, and the door closing. All was quiet after the click of the door. Sherlock stretched, luxuriating in the warmth of his bed, his body strangely relaxed around a bladder that throbbed painfully. 

Two pint glasses of water before he'd tried to sleep. He'd kept waking, aware of his bladder's fullness, but had been able to sleep again. He'd had dreams of the usual sort: hunting through empty rooms for a lavatory, sitting in a car, clutching his crotch like a child, wandering through a desert and being unable to stop. They were interesting in their own way, but they weren't enough. Now, on waking, he felt like his bladder had become the centre of his being, that its throbbing was more vital than the beat of his heart. 

He got up and dressed, shifting from foot to foot as he did so. Everything made him need to go: cold floor against warm feet made him reflexively clench his thighs, as if that would stem the flow, doing up the belt around his waist felt like a terrible torture, even standing straight felt like too much. Still, after a few moments he was able to compose himself. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was sweat on high on his forehead, but otherwise he gave none of the usual signs he had noticed in others. No one would know how desperate he was. 

He walked stiff and straight to the kitchen, and filled a litre bottle with water from the tap. The sound of the tap running was nearly his undoing, and he swayed on his feet, curling his toes inside his socks. Then it passed, and he was in control again. He was not thirsty—thought he had never been less thirsty—but he drank from the bottle, taking slow, cold sips. During the night, he had woken in a state of semi-arousal several times, but now that had passed, and his cock hung limp, his crotch damp with sweat. 

At present, there were no experiments of note, but he looked at the equipment on his table anyway, examining some notes he had made a month ago. Better to keep himself distracted: to focus too much on the delicious throb would be his undoing. Or, rather, it would end this sooner than he wished. 

He kept sipping the water, feeling its coolness travel down his oesophagus and into his stomach, and tried to read the book in front of him. He put his hand on a pipette, feeling its coolness, but was unable to remember why he had picked it up. This was the point at which his discipline generally failed him: he wanted to urinate now, he wanted to wee like a child, he wanted to let go and feel the hot piss soak his crotch, run down his legs, pool around his socks. He wanted to feel himself letting go, to be unable to resist this simple need, to be entirely controlled by his urges. He wanted to see the humiliation of a puddle around his feet, of wet stains down his legs, of his trousers gradually cooling against his skin. He wanted to stand here, in the room, in his wet clothes, as if he had no other option, as if he had wet himself because he had no other choice, and was so glad to have relieved the pressure, but was humiliated by the outcome. 

But to let go now would be to end this, and he wasn't ready for that yet. Instead he allowed himself to concentrate on the pain in his bladder, on the sharp ache in his crotch, on the burning need that coursed through him. He allowed himself to squeeze his cock in his hand, to fruitlessly try and ease the ache, to revel in his bodily sensations. 

It was hard to keep still, to stand straight. He really was nearly undone. Sometimes he wished he could wait until he simply started wetting himself, until he made no decision to let go but found that the piss just started to flow, but he had never been able to wait that long. It hurt too much. Instead there always came a time when he could no longer bear it, when he just wanted to relax his tightly clenched muscles. 

He sipped from the Volvic bottle, teasing himself, letting the cool liquid slosh around his mouth. He leant forward, moving things on the table, adding pressure to his bladder. He stood upright, curling his toes, trying not to grip his crotch. He held himself and whimpered, and the resolution to wait left him, and he began to let go, hunched over, holding himself like he was desperate to keep it in, when really he wanted to let it go, to let the hot piss pour through his clothes, even over the hand that he pretended was trying to hold it in. 

It began slowly, ponderously, a few hot spurts soaking his boxers and then the crotch of his trousers, and then his body began to relax, to realise it was allowed to let go. It was always hard to urinate somewhere other than a lavatory, though over the years it had become easier and easier, and now his body let go with limited fuss. He stood straighter, feeling warm tongues of liquid lick down his legs, over his thighs and to his knees, and trickle through the fingers he still held at his crotch. It was impossibly warm, and seemed to take an incredibly long time, hot and wet and endless. 

So he was only thinking of the heat in his crotch and the warm wetness, and was not listening to anything but the hiss of urinating and the squelch of the puddle against his socks, and did not hear John come in. When he looked up and saw him, it was far past a time when he could have done anything to hide what was happening. He could not even stem the flow. He was frozen, bottom lip caught between his teeth, face hot and flushed, one hand still resting against his groin, soaked in urine. He was standing in a puddle. He could not be more thoroughly caught. 

“John...” He began, the syllable catching in his throat. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said. “Do you ignore your body that much? If you paid some attention to your most basic needs you might not, I don't know, wet yourself in our kitchen. You're right beside the bathroom, for god's sake! Did you really leave it that long?”

So, again, John did not see. “Bodies are not at all biddable,” Sherlock said evenly. “Even mine. Sometimes I forget.”

John stared at him. His face was flushed, like he was embarrassed on Sherlock's behalf, and he looked both angry and confused. “God,” he said. Then, “I've got to go. Just came back for my phone. This had better be clean by the time I come back.”

Sherlock nodded. Stood there in his puddle, feeling the liquid cool on his legs, listening to John leave again. The urine seemed to cool down impossibly fast as soon as it left his body. He shifted slightly, leaning his arse against the edge of the table, thinking of John's face, John's complete confusion. He thought that he did not mind being caught by John, did not mind at all. Sometime he was not aroused after a session like this, and sometimes he was. Today his cock was hard and hot when he released it from his wet trousers, and he began to pull on it eagerly. 

**A pint, a glass of water, two cups of tea. Wait two hours, get in a taxi.**

Of course, the fascination did not just end with his own body. He noticed other people too. It was easy to spot them, to gauge their levels of need, by the way they shifted on seats on trains or moved their weight from foot to foot. By the way they clenched their fists or bit their lips or their cheeks flushed. Most people were reasonably subtle about it, and Sherlock knew that no one else in the vicinity would notice anything was amiss. But Sherlock noticed: saw their urgency, that their thoughts were mostly focused on relieving this pressure in their bladders, that they wanted nothing more than to just let go. 

He liked that: the thought of them letting go. The familiar wetness against their skin, the heat pooling in their crotch. He'd never seen anyone wet themselves (or certainly not since he was a child and hadn't understood why such a thing made him feel strange and hot inside), and thought it unlikely that he ever would. He simply observed and supplied the next events in his head, editing them to make them more appealing. 

John needed to go more often than he did, nipped off to use the loo far more frequently than Sherlock had to, but then this was true for most people. Most people had not spent as much time as Sherlock calmly trying to contain vast quantities of urine. That sort of thing will really do wonders for the bladder capacity. John, on the other hand, went slightly more often than the average male, but not so often that Sherlock had any reason to suspect he had a prostate problem. Sherlock thought he probably had slightly smaller than average bladder capacity, and was generally cautious about it. He'd never seen John in a real state of desperation, but he'd seen him reach a certain level of urgency, had seen the way his hand ghosted over his thigh as if to distract himself. His mind supplied images of John in a state of true desperation, and he was surprised by how often his thoughts returned to these images. 

Then they were in a restaurant as part of a case. Sherlock wasn't paying much attention to John, but he was aware of him eating and drinking. He ate lightly, but drank quite a lot: Sherlock mentally took note of it all, though did not give it much thought until later. They'd hurried right out of the restaurant, giving John no chance to use the loo, and the case had been solved rapidly after that, within two hours. 

Sherlock was not aware of John at all, was aware only of the rush that came with a solution, that came with being right, and then they got into a taxi together, and he was aware of nothing else. John's face was hot and flushed, and there was sweat at his temples. His hands were balled into fists. Sherlock could tell at once that he wanted to squirm, but was trying hard not to do so, and instead was shifting his weight from thigh to thigh, clenching the muscles in his legs rhythmically. Sherlock had rarely seen anyone so desperate. He thought back to the restaurant. He didn't think John had drunk an excessive amount, but clearly it had had quite an effect. 

At first he was fascinated, and then he began to feel sympathetic. He knew what desperation felt like, and he wouldn't like to feel it with such force in the back of a taxi. 

“We can stop somewhere, if you like,” Sherlock said. 

John looked a bit dazed. Then he said, “What? Why?”

“Because you're clearly desperate...” Sherlock paused, trying to phrase it better. “Because you clearly want to use the loo, that's why.” 

“God,” John said. He shifted in the seat, close to a proper squirm. Sherlock tried to remain sympathetic, but kept that little motion in his mind for study later. “That obvious?”

“To me, John,” Sherlock said. 

John looked out the window. They were going through residential streets, and it was early afternoon. Neither of these factors showed any promise of relief. He let out a little, gasping breath, almost like a laugh. “It fucking hurts,” he said. 

“I know,” Sherlock said kindly. “It'll be about twenty minutes until we get home.” 

John bit his lip. His expression changed slightly, like he was trying to force his face to relax. “That's not long, is it?” he said, but he said it like it sounded very long to him. 

“Can you wait?” Sherlock said. 

John twisted, turning his face away. He seemed offended by this. “Of course I can, Sherlock,” he said. He said it dismissively, and Sherlock knew he wanted him to stop talking about it. He observed John instead, the bottom lip being chewed by the teeth, the way he'd taken to squeezing and clenching his hands against one another, and, best of all, the little jerky, urgent movements he made with his hips. The taxi driver made no sign of noticing, and Sherlock was glad. He thought perhaps this was not obvious to anyone but him. 

Ten minutes elapsed, Sherlock trying not to stare too openly, John trying to contain his urgency, when John looked away from the window and faced Sherlock again. His eyes were damp. 

“I don't think I've ever had to piss this badly,” John said. 

Sherlock nodded sympathetically. “You should be fine,” he said. “The bladder is lined in transitional epithelium, which has a great capacity for stretching. Most people can maintain much greater volumes of liquid in their bladders than they would think possible.” 

“I know,” John said. “I'm a doctor. It just hurts.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I've always found that eventually the pain becomes too much to bear and I have to release my bladder.” 

John looked at him with as much surprise as someone gritting their teeth and trying not to grasp their crotch can. “Do you usually wait until it hurts that much?”

Sherlock realised that perhaps he'd said too much. He wondered if John would think back to the morning when he'd found him wetting himself (a memory that still seemed to bring heat to his groin) and make a connection. He said, “Not usually.” 

John was distracted anyway. He was jiggling his legs, looking out the window again. “Fuck this is slow.” 

It wasn't that slow. It was not a busy part of the day. “Eight more minutes, more or less,” Sherlock said as consolingly as he could. He had never seen an adult wet themselves, and he would like to, but not now, and not John. John so clearly hated it. In his fantasies, the person who wet themselves was usually as eager as he was to feel the hot liquid trickling over their skin, to lose control of themselves, to be undone. They were usually alone and safe, and they might snuffle a bit over the whole thing, but they would generally be comforted. He thought he would rather wet himself right now than have John go through any further pain. That thought surprised him. 

John put his hand over his crotch and clamped down on it. Sherlock knew that achieved very little, but would distract from the pain somewhat, and make you feel better. He watched with interest, until John took his hand away. He was flushed. “I'm glad I found you in a puddle of your own piss once,” John said, “Or I'd be really embarrassed.” 

Sherlock was glad too. He said, “Urination is one of the least disgusting bodily functions, and thus shouldn't be considered so humiliating. There are much worse ones.” 

“Like what?” 

“Oh most of them,” Sherlock said. “Digestion. Vomiting. Sneezing. Most sexual acts.” 

“Didn't have to think about that one much, did you?” John said. He was almost smiling. And then he slid his hand back to his groin and gave a little moan. 

They were nearly there. It always got worse when you were nearly there. 

Sherlock would have liked to have observed John going up the stairs and into the flat. He would very much have liked to observe him using the loo, too, but he knew that was never possible. However, he let John get out of the cab as soon as they stopped, and he leant forward to pay the driver. He hurried up the stairs as soon as he could, and stood in the flat, listening. He could hear the sound of urine hitting the lavatory bowl if he listened hard. John must not have closed the door. 

He stood moved through the flat so he was standing in the vicinity of the bathroom without appearing to be standing directly in front of it. He'd done this before, and he eyed the same section of books he'd had to look at the last time. It wasn't that he found the idea of John urinating arousing, specifically, it was the urgency that had lead up to this urination. He was interested in the release of all that tension, the sudden relief. He squirmed his own hips: he was not quite aroused, but he knew this afternoon would play a part in his fantasies later. He listened as the flow became a trickle, and then moved to another part of the room where John could not suspect him of listening. 

John came out, looking a little sheepish. “Well,” he said. “That's better.” 

“I imagine so,” Sherlock said. 

“You were nice about this,” John said. He sounded surprised. Sherlock wondered why. Was it because he sometimes had much better things to do than be nice? Or had something happened in the past to make John associate the need for urination with unkindness? 

“You were nice, and you were interested,” John said. “Are you doing an experiment or something? An investigation into transitional epithelium?” 

Sherlock smiled. He supposed he'd devoted surprising amounts of time to the study of transitional epithelium. “I suppose urination interests me,” he said. “It's strange when something so normal becomes so hidden. Why hide it? Not all human cultures have done so. The Ancient Egyptians, for instance...”

“Don't tell me about the Ancient Egyptians,” John said. “I've thought enough about pissing for one day. Are you hungry? We could order take-away.” 

**Two one-litre bottles of water, wait for half an hour, go out for a walk.**

The first time he did it, it was dark out, and raining. No one could possibly know. 

He had run the incident with John through his mind many times. He could picture the details perfectly: the smell of the cab, the quality of the light, the expressions on John's face. It forced him to revise some of his own fantasies. The idea of someone wetting themselves was fascinating, but it brought its own baggage. He could never be sure if he would enjoy such an incident because he would not enjoy the other person's humiliation. He was more interested in his own wetting, in losing control of himself: he was much safer, because he knew he would enjoy it. However he found the idea of someone witnessing him completely compelling. 

Experiments had always been conducted by himself, in the privacy of the flat, or, when much younger, in the privacy of his own bedroom, wearing old clothes that could easily be sequestered away. Now he began to wish to be witnessed, though he was not sure in what context. The thought of being humiliated in front of many strangers was not a pleasant one, but the idea of letting go outside, in public, was appealing. 

He chose a wet night, and carefully consumed a quantity of water he knew would quickly lead to desperation. 

“Why are you going out? You'll be soaked,” John said as he left. 

“Business,” Sherlock said. 

“What business?” John said. “You don't have a case.” He didn't pursue it, however. He instructed Sherlock to buy milk. 

Walking briskly at first seemed to detract from the urgency in Sherlock's bladder, but soon it made it worse. Each step seemed to make his bladder contract painfully. Rain ran down his face and into his ears—he didn't have an umbrella, he wasn't Mycroft, and anyway, it would defeat the purpose. He was cold and uncomfortable, and his bladder was adamant in communicating its fullness. The streets were dark, and his trousers were already soaked, and cold. 

He had suspected more build-up to this, he had suspected he would be more uneasy. Instead it seemed simple: no one would see, here in the dark, and even if they did they would not know what they were looking at. And with the quantity of water he had drunk, his urine would be almost odorless. 

Sherlock stopped walking, three streets away from Baker Street, just outside the aura of light cast by a streetlight. He didn't think he could wet himself walking, he had never tried, though it would be an interesting investigation. He stood there and gradually unclenched his muscles. A warm spurt of piss shot easily into his trousers. He was amazed by how easy this was—here he was, an adult, shamelessly wetting himself on a public street! 

It came easily, warm and wet, running down his legs and soaking into his already soaked socks, briefly replacing the cold rainwater with a blissful heat. 

Afterwards he walked home, squelching slightly, feeling his urine cool against his skin, and feeling entirely inconspicuous. At home, John remarked on how wet he was, but noticed nothing. Sherlock counted the experience as a success, though afterwards found he had no urge at all to masturbate. 

*

Two days later it was dry and mild out, and the streetlights seemed impossibly bright. And he wanted to try it again: though he knew this time would not be so sensible, he thought it might be more rewarding. There had been no real danger last time, no chance of anyone seeing, and somehow that was not what he wanted. It wasn't reasonable to want such a thing, but the longing did not bore him. He did not want to be unmasked, but he wanted the possibility to exist: that someone could see him as he was, wet, humiliated, not in control of his own most basic urges. 

He drank water carefully, slowly, holding each sip in his mouth for a long time. John was in the kitchen, watching him. “You're thirsty,” he said. 

In fact, Sherlock was rarely thirsty, was only drinking because he liked the effect it had. His stomach filled with the water, and he filled the bottle again from the tap, considering his own fullness. He could wait for some time, and he didn't have to go out. If he wanted he could just wait here: he did not have to do anything new. 

But he did go out, into the mild night, coat unnecessary but wrapped around himself nonetheless. He wondered if he would get it wet. It would have to be dry-cleaned. The pavements were dry, unmarked, any wetness would stand out on them, and the shop-fronts and streetlights were all too bright. It wasn't late yet, and it was a Tuesday: no one was walking home drunk yet; there was no sign of anyone relieving themselves in an alley. 

He walked further than he had before, the pain in his bladder making his knees weak, but the light evening making him keep walking. When he stopped, it was not because he made the decision to do so, but because his bladder clenched painfully, and he had to bob awkwardly at the waist to make it more comfortable. He squeezed his hands into fists. It would be difficult to get back home now, when he was this full. Did he want to wet himself out here? It was both incredibly compelling, and a terrible idea. 

He kept walking, unable to make the decision, but making it for himself by putting more and more distance between Baker Street and himself. He turned a familiar corner and made his way to an alley he knew, less brightly lit than this street. Each step was sore now, and his stomach hurt, and his breath came fast. He was testing his limits: he could wait a long time, longer than most people, but he had already pushed himself further than usual. 

The alley was not particularly dark or secluded, just darker and more secluded than the street. His heart raced. Part of his mind told him what he was doing was ridiculous, pathetic, awful, but it was not a part he was very accustomed to listening to. A great deal of him was interested in what was about to happen next, was interested in his fraying power over his own bladder, was interested in what was going to happen. 

What was going to happen was inevitable, really. Sherlock was not interested in denying himself anything he really wanted, and this moment had been inevitable since he had discovered the urge to do it. His crotch throbbed painfully, sharply, but it was still hard to let go. He had misgivings. He wondered if he should get his cock out, just piss against the wall. 

But then it came: a hot rush that was both familiar and unfamiliar. The piss trickled into his boxers and soaked them, and for a second he clamped down on the flow, and a familiar pain filled him. Then he let go again, and felt it soaking past his underwear, felt it trickle its usual course down the backs of his legs, around his calves, around his ankles. Into his shoes. 

He had the presence of mind to hold his coat away from himself, so it was not soaked. It was just his trousers, his socks, even the ground around his feet. He was soaked, God, he was soaked, anyone nearby would have known that he had soaked himself. His cock was hard, urgent, insistent, but though he had sunk so far, he had not sunk to such depths that he would ease it in public. Instead, he simply allowed it to throb, allowed himself to feel the contents of his bladder cool slowly in the evening air. 

He walked home. What other option was there? It seemed a shorter walk now that he was no longer desperate, and though he passed one or two people, he knew they were not looking. His coat covered most of the damage, and though he worried that its lining was becoming damp, it had been saved from the worst of it. He became less aroused as he walked, though the prospect of pulling himself off was still very appealing. 

The soles of his shoes left tiny damp marks for a few steps, but then those fading. He walked upstairs once at Baker Street, certain he was leaving no evidence that anyone there could spot. And then John was in front of him, in the hall in front of his bedroom, not calmly using his laptop in the kitchen as he had been when Sherlock left. 

Sherlock gathered his coat around himself, hoping John would not look at his ankles. John was looking at him intently, surprisingly intently, his eyes on Sherlock's face. “Aren't you warm?” he said slowly. Then, without waiting for Sherlock to respond, he said, “What have you done, Sherlock?” 

His hands went out, demanding and strangely insistent, and took the lapels of Sherlock's coat. The coat wasn't buttoned, and Sherlock didn't resist when John pulled it apart. His heart thrummed in his ears. He was eager, uncertain, and longing, God, _longing_ for John to see him like this. For John to see him unmasked. 

John let out a breath, taking in the patterns of wetness on Sherlock's clothes. Taking in the faint but familiar smell. 

“I thought so,” he said. “I thought so.” 

And then he stepped forward, further into Sherlock's space, but not touching. He breathed in. He breathed in, smelling Sherlock's sweat and Sherlock's urine, and whatever else was on Sherlock's clothes. 

Then (unexpectedly, and that felt as strange as anything else because Sherlock usually expected everything) he dropped to his knees, dropped to his knees on the hard floor, and looked at Sherlock's crotch. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips, his fingers light and cool, and Sherlock's skin was cold now, damp and stained with his own urine, and he shivered slightly at the touch. 

“Why?” John said, squeezing Sherlock's hips slightly. 

“It feels...” Sherlock began, glad to be asked a question, glad to break the silence. Then he didn't know what to say, he licked his lips, standing there with John, exposed. “I want to,” he said. 

“I didn't think I'd like it,” John said, kneeling in front of him, and incredibly in control, “I didn't think I'd like it, but the way you look...” He paused, breathed in. Sherlock wondered what he wanted. What he could possibly want from this. Sherlock just wanted John to look at him. 

“Are you hard?” John said, and Sherlock was glad he didn't reach around to feel it. 

“No,” Sherlock said. Then, “Are you?” 

“Yes,” John said. “Yes. God, yes.” He laughed, a little, dry, humourless laugh, and licked his lips. 

“Will you...” Sherlock was surprised at how faltering he was. He was surprised by how his skin felt hot and cold at the same time. He looked at John. “Will you bring yourself off, while you look at me?” he said. 

John's eyes met his. He dropped his hands. He swallowed, nodded, undid his trousers. He had to change position to get them down, to get his cock out, and then he stood there, trousers around his thighs, fingers squeezing his penis with a practiced, familiar motion. His eyes met Sherlock's and then slid down to Sherlock's crotch, where Sherlock wanted them to rest. 

In a raw voice, John said, “What do you fantasise about?” 

“Everything,” Sherlock said, and then thought about it. Made his voice low, careful. Looked at John's cock as he said, “I imagine I'm tied up, there's nowhere for me to go. You keep giving me water. I have to drink, I have to hold on. I keep holding on, though it hurts, though it's hard, because you want me to. And then I can't, and I let go.” He paused. John's hand moved faster now, and his eyes ran over Sherlock's thighs, over his crotch. His attention, at that moment, was absolute, and completely compelling. 

Sherlock kept talking. “I imagine I'm in the kitchen, and I keep working on experiments, even though I need to go. I really need to go, but I keep ignoring it. I'm squirming like a kid who wants a wee. You find me like that, find me with my hand in my crotch and my lip between my teeth, and tell me to use the toilet for God's sake. But I tell you I'm fine, I'm really fine, and five minutes later I'm wetting myself.”

“Am I angry?” John said, panting. His thumb flicked over the head of his cock. 

“Not angry, but you tell me off. You tell me to be more careful. You tell me I have to go whenever you tell me to go. So I do as I'm told, I wait until you tell me, but sometimes you forget, or I drink too much when you're not looking, and I still wet myself. I'm not in control, John, I'm not in control of myself at all—you, you have to help me.” 

“Yes,” John said, and Sherlock realised he was coming, semen arching over his hand, sticking between his fingers. Sherlock watched, biting his lip, not aroused by this, but interested, interested in John's facial expression, John's shaky groan. John looked up at Sherlock, meeting his eyes, not looking at his crotch, at his wet clothes. “God knows you need help,” John said. He smiled shakily, and stood straighter. He looked larger than his usual self, and, though his trousers were round his knees and his hand was sticky with semen, strangely commanding. 

“You're filthy,” he said. “Go and have a shower.” 

Sherlock was delighted. 

**A cup of tea, half a packet of crisps, a glass of orange juice, half a litre of water**

John didn't bring it up, but Sherlock wouldn't avoid the subject. John blushed the first morning and wouldn't make eye contact, and then asked Sherlock if he'd like a cup of tea rather than just making him one. He asked it nervously, like he was expecting something from Sherlock. 

Sherlock said, “Yes please. I promise not to accidentally wee on the furniture.” 

John flushed, and then grinned. Once Sherlock had drunk the tea, he gave him a glass of orange juice. Sherlock hadn't drunk such a thing in years and it was as sweet and sticky as he remembered, but he swallowed it down anyway, thinking this would not be the right time to say no to John. 

He'd pulled himself off in the shower the night before, and then found that John had gone to bed. He'd been excited, embarrassed, unable to concentrate on anything. He didn't feel exactly embarrassed now, but it was definitely hard to concentrate. He pretended to read a book (the complete poems of Tennyson), but couldn't look at it properly. He finished the juice, and John came back with the familiar Volvic bottle Sherlock usually used. 

He took it, and felt John sit down next to him. “If you piss on the furniture we can just get it cleaned,” John said. 

“That would be an expensive habit to get into,” Sherlock said. “Besides, you don't want to encourage bad habits, do you?” 

John smiled. He was flushed, but his voice was firm when he said, “Keep drinking.”


End file.
